Who, What, When, Where, Why? And How?

Oftentimes I just wonder “why?” I used to drive my folks nuts with my questions. Why are some cows brown and some white and some black and white? Why do buzzards circle? Who invented Spam? How come The Flintstones celebrate Christmas? On and on and on. All this was pre-Internet; my exasperated folks, their answers were never enough.

Then I got married and transferred that incessant curiosity to my wife. Poor Melanie! She could glean reams of information on any given topic, diving deeply into the well of knowledge. Well armed, she would spill the data at my feet. I’d ponder for a moment and then follow with a question. Then another. I have learned (sort of) that my habit can be trying, to say the least.

My questions served me well in the classroom though. I get to know students because I really care about their lives. I ask about their jobs and future plans, their pets and why they wear ripped jeans (this one still muddles my mind). And I remember their answers. When Jake tells me about his latest raise at Torchy’s Tacos, I follow up on that later. Maria mentions her daughter had the flu. The next week I ask if she’s better. Then I likely ask them more questions. If anything, I have to hold myself back. Regardless of age, I can chat with almost anyone because most people like to talk about themselves. And I love to ask questions.

For me, writing is a chance to explore the whys all around me. Today, I saw a dude in one of those neon green traffic vests. Middle-aged guy. He had his flatbed off to the side of the road, and he was sweeping it off. Why? He wasn’t near any buildings and wasn’t dropping off right then. What compelled Mr. Truck Driver to pull over, surround his truck with cones to block one lane of traffic, and bust out his broom? Then I wonder what this guy is like at home. Maybe he power-washes his trash cans and labels them so wandering thieves don’t abscond with them. Maybe he has an OCD trucking boss who demands cleanliness. Maybe he’s stalling to avoid the next job. No answers, but I wonder.

And when I wonder, I write. My short stories, Hurl’s Treehouse, my novels–they’re all my reflections on what if or how come or could that be? I’m no guru or genius with special insight into humanity. I am a guy with a laptop and ample time to muse about what might be or could have been. Sometimes serious, sometimes light and frothy, my brain just doesn’t stop. Does yours?

A song, a movie, a painting, or some dude on the side of the road. The synapses just keep firing all day long. When I finally fall asleep at night, I dream like Shakespeare on mushrooms (too bad I don’t write that well). All night, every night, the dreams just keep coming, like that conveyer of chocolates that Lucy and Ethel can’t keep up with.

Some have asked about Jeremy Fischer, the main character from At the Intersection of Grief and Grace: are you Jeremy? I’m not Jeremy, just like I’m not Devlin Spudd from my first novel. But both guys are thoughtful, analyzing too much and acting too little, which is a lot like me.

Oh, geez, now I have something else to think about.

If you need an Easter gift, I recommend my latest book. Set during the week preceding Easter, it’s a story of hope. Available on Amazon. Think about it.